


Moonlight on the Moors

by sanguisuga



Series: sang's AU & crack collection [3]
Category: BBC Sherlock, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Multi, Scotland, Supernatural Elements, World War I
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-27
Updated: 2014-03-03
Packaged: 2018-01-14 00:21:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1245751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sanguisuga/pseuds/sanguisuga
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Captain John H. Watson has been spirited away to Scotland after being injured in battle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Completely different AU here, just dipping my toes in the water, so to speak. There will eventually be supernatural elements, which I will tag as they come up. I'm not even sure if this is the complete chapter, or just a teaser...
> 
> Really, I have no idea where I'm going with this, it's just something that popped into my head and I had to run with it. 
> 
> If you're intrigued by it at all, please do let me know...

Captain John H Watson, formerly of the Fifth Northumberland, sighed as he disembarked the train. It was a bit dodgy, what with his heavy rucksack on his right shoulder and the walking stick in the same hand. He nearly stumbled, but managed to grab hold of the railing on his left-hand side, his shoulder twinging with a sharp stab of pain as he lurched off the step onto the platform. Shading his eyes briefly, he caught sight of the porter hauling his large duffel out of the baggage car and set off in his direction. The porter nodded at him briefly and then hopped back aboard as the train started to move once again.  
   
John glanced around before slinging his ruck down next to his duffel. He was the only one who had disembarked, and it almost seemed to him that he was the only living soul within a hundred kilometres of this tiny blasted station. He sighed again, watching as the train roared off into the distance. Thurso, Scotland. For fuck's sake, how did he ever end up in the middle of bloody bumfuck nowhere?  

Well, he knew the answer to that, right enough. Mr. Mycroft Holmes, the master of evasive and shady operations, had somehow spirited him away from right underneath the noses of his commanding officers. He had personally bundled John onto the train himself, calmly urging him to keep to himself as much as possible and not let anyone know where he was headed.

John had thought about simply exiting the train at the next station and turning himself back into his superiors, but if he had, he'd be dead now. After all, the shell-shocked were only ever good as cannon fodder. Sometimes, they didn't even issue them weapons. Just let them roam over the active field, wandering into the enemy's sights like witless half-dead creatures rather than the men they used to be.

And while John had nightmares, sometimes waking with a throat gone raw and bloody from screaming, he had not lost his wits. He almost wished he had. Dying on the battlefield, well, there was a sort of dignity about it, wasn't there? John snorted mirthlessly. Bullshit. All that shite they tried peddling to young minds, the glory and pride of defending your country... Absolute and utter bollocks.

War was unending noise and heat and blood and pain. Watching your comrades-in-arms, your friends, your fucking _brothers_ being blown to bits right in front of your eyes. Hunkering down in the trenches, trying to sleep while surrounded by the smell of dozens of unwashed men, open latrines just a few steps away... John shuddered delicately and turned his face into the light breeze that had risen, inhaling deeply to rid himself of the memory of the smell of blood and shit and piss.

With his face tilted up to catch the rays of the early afternoon sun, he felt his shoulders drop minutely. It felt... Well, it felt nice, actually. Warmth with a hint of that cool breeze, carrying with it only the faint aroma of the heather off the moors. And perhaps a touch - yes, a hint - of the sea. Maybe this wouldn't be so bad after all.

"Are ye Watson?"

John spun abruptly, his stupid leg nearly giving out on him. The lad who had snuck up on him automatically reached out to steady him, but pulled back at John's glare. He shook himself and grimaced slightly, giving the boy a wry look. He nodded curtly, and in the manner of men, apologies were given and received.

John switched his hold on his stick and held out his hand. "John Watson. That's me."

"Tam." The lad shook, and John looked him over as he shifted his stance. Sixteen, maybe seventeen, already a good four inches taller than himself. He was very nearly the exact likeness of the stereotypical Scotsman, with flaming red hair and a broad, ruddy face. He had yet to grow into his ears, poor lad, but his limbs were sturdy and his chest was filling out nicely. Another few years, and he'd cut quite a fine figure indeed.

John nodded. "You're sent from Lestrade, then?"

"Aye." Tam gestured at the bundles at their feet. "That yourn?"

"Yeah." John bent to retrieve his rucksack, and Tam hoisted the duffel onto his back. John felt his eyebrows raising. That damn bag was nearly as big as he was, and the lad hadn't made a sound as he lifted it. He followed as Tam led the way to a rickety cart, tethered to two frankly astonishing beasts. "Christ." Tam chuckled, a dark, breathy sound that sent a shiver down John's spine. "What the hell do they eat?"

"Not wee Englishmen, Ah'll tell ye." He tossed John's duffel into the cart and casually reached out to slip his ruck off his shoulder before tossing it in as well. "Come 'ere." John limped after him, keeping well out of the reach of the enormous draught horses' heads as they bent down to nuzzle at Tam's hands. "They're real gentle-like, Mr. Watson. Ah promise ye that yer head will remain firmly set on those fine shoulders o' yers."

"John."

"Eh?"

He smiled at the lad, reaching out with mostly steady fingers to touch the beast's broad nose. "Call me John." Tam smiled in return, a warm and cheery grin full of such light that John had to look away from the lad, lest it burn him. He noticed that his eyes were nearly the same shade of blue that Christopher's had been, so light as to almost be grey. He felt such a sudden stab of pain in his shoulder that he hissed and pulled his arm down abruptly. He turned away, squeezing his eyes shut tight and biting his lip hard to keep from keening.

"John?" Tam was close, if still a respectful distance away.

"It's nothing, lad. Not fully healed, really. Acts up now and again." He looked up, trying to smile. By the sceptical look on Tam's face, he knew that he had failed utterly. "Perhaps we should be getting on?"

Tam nodded and clambered up onto the bench seat of the cart, reaching out a hand to John. With an inward sigh for the death of his pride, John braced his good foot against the step and allowed Tam to pull him up by his unwounded arm. Which he did with a bit of unexpected enthusiasm, as John nearly ended up in the lad's lap. Tam blushed as John's hand flailed and he caught himself against the boy's substantial thigh.

John cleared his throat and straightened his jacket unnecessarily as Tam spurred the monstrous beasts into motion. "How far do we have to go?"

"Aboot sixty kilometres, give or take."

"Christ." He stretched out his leg a bit, feeling every little jolt and jounce of the rickety cart along the unpaved pathway. "And this is the closest town, is it?"

"Nae. That'd be Tongue. This were just tae closest train stop."

"Tongue?" John turned his head to stare at the boy incredulously. "There's a town called _Tongue_?"

Tam smirked and then winced in sympathy as they went over a particularly odious bump and John hissed in discomfort. "Aye." He cast a sideways glance at his passenger. "If'n ye dinnae mind - how did it happen?"

John scowled, but couldn't really find it in himself to tell the boy to mind his own bloody buggering business. He was young, after all, and curious. His right hand went up to cradle his left shoulder as he shrugged. "Got shot. Nothing special, really. It was a day just like any other - they ordered us to rush, and that's what we did. Pretty sure I managed to get my own in before one of the bastards got me. Don't remember much, just the impact. Not much pain, not at first."

John stared out into the distance, watching green rolling hills but seeing something entirely different. "It's like - like when you're young, and you're playing on the green, right? Minding your own business, maybe you've got a ball, or a shiny new toy... And there's that other kid, the one who's older and bigger and meaner. And he wants what you've got, so he just comes over and shoves you into the mud, right? That's what it was like. I got shoved down, and then that damn bully sat on my chest and took all my air away. Only he didn't want a fucking ball, he wanted my life."

"I didn't let him have it, though. I fought, and I screamed, but that damn bully wouldn't let me up. So I kept screaming until somebody found me, and they dragged my arse out of there. Good thing it was a pretty clean shot. Some bastards - well, you step on a mine, you're pretty much a lost cause, even if you're still breathing. Run across a poor bastard with only one leg and his guts hanging out, well, you put him out of his misery, don't you? Only you don't use your gun. Noisy, attracts the enemy. And it's a waste of ammo. No, easiest and quickest way is to use your knife. Slit their throat, watch your brother's blood spill out into the mud..."

John's voice died away as he slipped into memories as vivid as the world around him, until the warmth of a broad hand on his started seeping into his consciousness. He pulled away abruptly, unaccountably startled at the touch, but Tam didn't take offence. He simply took up the reins again once he had established that John was once more in the land of the living. John swallowed uneasily and then smiled a little ruefully on the look on the lad's face. He had turned a bit green around the edges, and was eyeing John doubtfully.

"Ach." John snorted. So many layers of meaning in that one syllable - _'Sorry for asking, sorry you had to go through that, sorry I don't know quite what to say, sorry sorry sorry...'_ Odd how it brought so much more comfort than any of the halting phrases that had been recited at him bedside at hospital.

"It's all right, lad. You weren't to know."

"Ye could've told me tae piss off."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Tam get to know each other a bit...

John laughed then, a gentle rolling laugh that seemed to shake loose some of the tightness in his chest. "And maybe next time I will."  
   
Tam grinned at him and knocked their legs together briefly. "Wot aboot that, then?"  
   
John looked down and picked a bit of dirt off his trouser leg. "No idea. Wasn't hit in the leg, no shrapnel. It just hurts like the devil and I can't get around without the blasted stick. Phantom pain, they call it. Another symptom of the shell-shock, I suppose."  
   
"Ach, aye? And wot's that?" John eyed him with a faint frown. "Ye'll have tae forgive me - it's nae like we hear much roond these parts."  
   
"Oh yes, of course." John sighed. "Truth is, they don't really know what it is. They only know that it turns their soldiers into little more than the walking dead. Some do nothing but scream, some never say another word. Others just sit and stare. A few run, and if their wits aren't completely addled, then they get away. Like me. If I go back, they'll have me for desertion. I'd be executed, most likely." Tam scowled fiercely and John couldn't help but laugh. "One way or another, they'll have me. I signed over my soul when I signed that little slip of paper."  
   
"T'aint right, treating men that way."  
   
"We weren't men, lad. We were just pawns."  
   
"And how _did_ ye get out?"  
   
John watched the hills roll by for a moment. "Saved a man's life, once. This was before the war started, at a - well. At a gentlemen's club." John cast his eyes sideways and breathed a little sigh of relief at the look of utter confusion on the lad's face. "The chap had been a bit too heavy-handed with some morphia, and having been trained as a medic, I knew how to counteract the drug." John snorted lightly. "Only thing the damn fool had to say to me when he woke was that I had bruised his oh-so-delicate skin with my rough handling and thank God I wasn't a real doctor."  
   
"Nae even a simple 'Thank ye'?"  
   
"No, that came from his brother, who sought me out on another night to offer his - gratitude."  
   
John blushed faintly as he recalled the method that Holmes had employed to offer said gratitude, sliding neatly onto his knees in front of John's seat by the fireplace. John had just stared, utterly flabbergasted, until Holmes had placed his long hands on either knee, running them up his thighs with slow but firm pressure. John had stiffened in his trousers almost immediately, and after a long second of desperate yearning, had leapt to his feet to stand on the opposite side of the room.  
   
Holmes had merely tilted his head and looked at John with a small measure of disappointment. "Surely, in a place such as this..." He gestured expansively, for although they were in a room by themselves, they had both passed many questionable acts being perpetrated in shadowy corners to get here. "This cannot be much of a surprise for you, Watson." Holmes had remained on his knees, completely calm and seemingly at peace with himself.  
   
John shook his head. "No, not a surprise. It's just - well. I hardly know you!"   
   
Holmes had tutted and lifted himself to his feet. "Oh dear. The whole point of places like this is so you don't _have_ to know people, Watson. The point is - if you will forgive my vulgarity - is to get off and then get on. Nearly all these men are married, you know. They come here to exorcise their inverted demons and then return to polite society. If names are exchanged they are very nearly always false." Holmes settled into the chair that John had so recently occupied and reached into his jacket for his cigarettes. He offered, but John declined. Leaning forward, he lit his cigarette with a spill from the fire. John recalled how his auburn hair had glinted in the firelight, and how he had to immediately sit in the opposite chair before his knees had given out on him. Holmes had looked at him with a cool, calculating gaze, eyebrow and lip quirked knowingly.  
   
"I don't - I can't." John had crossed his legs at Holmes' quick downward glance.  
   
"Oh, you most certainly _can_ , my fine fellow."  
   
"That's not what I meant!"  
   
Holmes had laughed off his indignant outburst before settling back, blowing the smoke from his cigarette over his head with an easy, casual grace. John remembered eyeing the long line of his white throat and vaguely wondering what it would taste like. Suddenly, those cool grey eyes had pierced into him. "I don't like having things held over my head, Watson."  
   
"What are you on about?"  
   
"Favours. I don't enjoy the sensation of being beholden to people."  
   
John had frowned. "I never said you owed me anything, Holmes. If anyone owes me, it's that fool brother of yours. But no, I don't expect a damn thing from you. Especially not - that."  
   
After another long look, Holmes had nodded decisively. "Care for a drink, then?" John had acquiesced, and Holmes had rung for a butler, and they had spent a pleasant enough evening sipping at fine scotch and mostly not-talking.  
   
John shook himself back into the present as Tam leaned over, looking at him inquisitively. "Sorry, lad. Memories." Tam nodded with all the solemnity that a sixteen-going-on-seventeen year old boy could show. "So, yes. His brother, who is seemingly rather high up in the ranks, was apparently keeping an eye on me. Saw that I was listed as shell-shock and came right down to whisk me away without further delay. I haven't a clue why he sent me up this way, though. Just said that Lestrade would help."  
   
"Ah." Tam's body seemed to stiffen slightly next to John, and he frowned.  
   
"What can you tell me about the chap?"  
   
"Guid man, if a bit gruff. Keeps tae hisself, mostly. Nae originally from roond here."  
   
"Well, no. With a name like that... French?"  
   
"A lang time ago, aye."  
   
"And the household? What am I in for, Tam?"

"Nae a house, fer one." He grinned impishly at John's narrowed eyes. "We call it The Keep, since that's wot it used ter be."

"Like a castle? Am I going to be living in a great big bloody draughty bloody _castle_?" Tam broke out into giggles at the horrified look on John's face and nodded breathlessly. "Oh, bloody buggering _fuck_! No running water, I suppose." Tam shook his head, still giggling madly. John tried to keep hold of his outrage, but it dissolved at the sight of the lad bent double in his seat. "Breathe, Tam. I would hate to have to present the Lord and Master of The Keep with your lifeless corpse. Especially since I'd most likely get lost and perish myself. Bit awkward that - one corpse carting another round on its back through the forest..."

Tam sat up and wiped his eyes as he struggled to regain his breath. "Ah dinnae ken that English were so - morbid."

John lifted one eyebrow. "John _Hamish_ Watson, at your service. I may have been born in Merry Olde England, but my parents had only emigrated there three years before. My blood's just as Scots as yours is, lad. Christ, the stories my mum used to tell me... It's lucky I was ever able to get to sleep as a child."

"Oh, aye? That mouth of yourn is making more sense, nae."

John grinned. "Figured the English were a bit more proper, eh? 'My good fellow' and all that?" He snorted at Tam's sidelong glance. "We're not all gentry, you know. Hell, I'm barely better than working class. It's lucky that both my parents have trade skills."

"And wot were that be?"

"My dad's a butcher, and my mum a seamstress. Guess that's why I went the medico route - easy enough to figure out how to chop people up and then stitch them back again after watching them at it, or near enough, for years." John shook his head at Tam's rueful snort. "And what is it that you do at The Keep, lad?"

"Mostly watching after tae beasties." He nodded toward the enormous creatures hauling the cart. "These lovelies and some sheep, few chickens. Ah help to keep tae walls from falling in, that sort of thing."

"Keeps you busy, I imagine."

"Aye. She's solid enough, but when ye've been standing on a cliff fer a couple hundred years, well, yeh get a bit worn down, dinnae ken?"

John snorted. "Any other staff?"

"Missus Hudson, wot tends the kitchen, and Molly, who does most everything else. Ah helps her out nae and agin, some o' the work is a bit much."

"She a pretty lass?" John smiled gently at the faint blush on Tam's cheeks. "Good."

Tam frowned faintly. "She's a respectable sort, Mister Watson."

John tapped him on the knee briefly. "John. And you needn't worry about her on my account. No need at all." He sighed. "Just thought it might be good for _you_ \- young lad and lassie and all."

Tam's frown deepened as he looked at John with incredulity. "We've bin at The Keep together practically since we wair wee bairns, John. Wair kin, nae. That would be - ergh." He emphasised with an exaggerated shudder. "Ah think there's another lad she has her eye on in Tongue, anyhow."

John shook his head. " _Tongue_. Of all the places..." Tam's dark chuckle made him shiver yet again, and then he surprised himself with a substantial yawn.

"If'n ye like, ye can bed down in tae cart. We've still a ways tae go yet."

John glanced behind him, at the large sacks of grain nestled next to his army duffel and rucksack. He shrugged. He had bivvy'd down in much harsher environs before. "No, I'm fine. I'd like to stay up here and keep you company."

The blush that spread over the lad's cheeks was much more pronounced than the one he had sported at the mention of Molly. "Ah'd like that. Thank ye."

For a brief shining moment, John allowed himself to hope. But no, there was no hope for his sort, was there? Not only that, the lad wasn't even half his age. That'd be a rum go, wouldn't it, Captain? Not only inverted, but add desecration of a minor to the charge, and he would undoubtedly be sentenced to more than just six months hard labour if _that_ were to come out. Fuck. He was tired, and clearly not thinking straight. Once they got to this godforsaken Keep, he'd find a bed and just collapse onto it and stay in it for a week straight. Yes, sleep like the dead.

He nodded and smiled at the boy and they settled into a companionable silence as John watched more of the green go rolling past. And if his head began to dip, well, who could really blame him? It was terribly peaceful, after all. Just the steady clip-clop of frighteningly large horses' hooves, the rattle of the cart, and the warmth of the sturdy lad next to him. And as his head began to nod and bob in time to the rhythm of all of that, so what if Tam tentatively draped an arm around his waist before tightening his hold securely? He's just making sure I don't tumble out of the cart, that's all. John sighed and let his head fall sideways onto the lad's strong shoulder, giving in to the twin sensations of touch and sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John gets his first look at The Keep, and at its master...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please do let me know what you think...
> 
> *mwah*

It seemed but moments later when Tam was shaking him awake, gently nudging his shoulder into John's face. John's eyes flew open wide and he pushed himself upright with a start. "Nearly there, mucker."  
   
John shook his head and looked at Tam as he ran his hands over his face. He squinched up his eyes as he caught sight of the rather embarrassing patch of wet on the boy's sleeve. "I drooled on you, for Christ's sake. How revolting."  
   
Tam chuckled. "Nae. Ah seen worse. Ye have tae, Ah reckon."  
   
John nodded glumly. "Still, shouldn't have fallen asleep on you. I'm terribly sorry."  
   
"Doan be. Ye needed it."  
   
"Perhaps. But still..." John silenced himself after Tam cast him a look, a withering glance that clearly said, _'Shut yer gob, ye daft English'_. He giggled slightly, feeling somewhat giddy after his little nap. The lad was quite correct - he had needed it. And for once, it seemed that he actually had rested, rather than simply falling back into the trenches alongside his long-dead comrades to fight invisible foes. He didn't know whether it had been because he was quite utterly exhausted, or the motion of the cart, or even the company, but whatever it was, John clearly needed more of it.  
   
He rubbed the sleep from his eyes as they broke out of the cover of the forest onto a vast moor. Tam looked to him, clearly amused at the little gasp that had escaped his mouth. The view was - well, it was astonishing. The Keep was indeed large, although perhaps not as large as John had envisioned when he was muttering about 'great bloody castles' earlier. The structure itself was circular, about 20 metres high and held perhaps four or five floors. It was surrounded by a great stone wall, easily a kilometre across if not more and at least half as high as the Keep itself. She was indeed standing sentinel on a high cliff, as the land just dropped away abruptly past where John could see clearly. They were headed for a small gate, and John winced minutely, thinking for just a moment that the bloody giant horses and cart wouldn't fit.  
   
He looked back as they passed through and noted that even though the door was standing open, it was quite solid and there were braces leaning next to it. Despite Tam's proclamation that she was a bit run-down, John could see no outward signs of decay. In fact, once that door was shut and braced, she could probably withstand quite the onslaught. John's neck craned as he looked up and down and around, smiling at Tam's chuckle.  
   
"She's quite beautiful, Tam."  
   
The lad smiled proudly. "Thank ye."  
   
"And what's that over there?" John pointed to an outbuilding, a simple rectangular hutch with thatched roofing.  
   
"Tae stables. We keep tae sheep on tae oter side, penned in. Damn things would roam over harf tae moor, otherwise."  
   
"And over there?"  
   
"Ah'll give ye tae gran' tour a wee bit later."  
   
Tam patted his knee and nodded toward the narrow entrance way to the Keep itself. The household had apparently turned out for their guest's arrival, and Tam was seemingly eager to show him off. As the lad had described, there were only the two ladies, one older and rather frail-looking, the other young and apple-cheeked. Lestrade himself stood a bit apart, turned away slightly so John couldn't see his face quite clearly. He seemed unsettled by having a guest at all, as what John could discern of his face consisted mainly of an rather impressive frown. He found himself wondering what Holmes had over the man to make him agree to this arrangement.  
   
Tam pulled the cart up a few feet from the entrance and nimbly hopped down, not at all stiff from the long ride. Ah, to be young and hale - John snorted as he stood unsteadily and eyeballed the distance to the earth uneasily. With no trace of self-consciousness, Tam lifted his arms and firmly grasped John's waist in his hands, overriding his indignant squawk as he manhandled him down to the ground as if he weighed no more than a bloody feather. John huffed and tugged his jacket down with sharp jerks, trying to ignore Tam's gentle smile and faint blush as he passed him the walking stick. The womenfolk tittered quietly amongst themselves, and John lifted his chin, gathering the shreds of his dignity around him like a cloak.  
   
He set off toward Lestrade, trying to read the man's face as he limped closer. A bit of a smirk at Tam's gallant gesture and John's discomfiture, a bit of a frown as he watched John's unsteady gait. The look in his eyes was uncertain - whether it was pity, sympathy or even disdain, John couldn't quite tell. As the distance between them grew smaller, John found himself studying the man in return. He was of a height to Tam, a good four inches taller than himself. And while his face wasn't lined with age, his hair was tinged bright silver, more silver than John's grandfather's had been before he died at age 77. He had large, dark eyes framed by quite luxurious lashes and a generous mouth. His features were nicely proportionate with a high, intelligent brow and strong chin and jawline. He was, in fact, quite striking. John found himself wishing that the man wasn't wearing that fine cloak of his, as it impeded his view of a body that was no doubt just as striking.  
   
He finally came near enough to shift his hold on his stick and hold out his hand. Lestrade's eyes flickered over his face briefly before he reached out to clasp hands. As they touched, John watched as his nostrils flared and his dark eyes went wide and impossibly darker. His tongue came out to wet his lips and he took just a small step closer. John's heart hammered wildly as Lestrade lifted his hand and bent his head down. Was he going to kiss it? Was that what Frenchmen do? John's sense of English propriety was utterly at odds with even how to behave. Should he protest? Well, of course he _should_ \- the problem was that he didn't want to. John's head reeled as he suddenly realised that he would undoubtedly allow this man to do anything to him he bloody well liked. How _appalling_.  
   
He didn't kiss John's hand, however. He did something far stranger. As he lifted it to his face, he turned it over, and ran his nose along the inside of John's wrist, over the pulse point. He felt Lestrade's hot breath brush across his palm, and a sharp huff, as if he had inhaled deeply. Still frozen, John couldn't quite lean in close enough to hear, but he could swear that the man was growling faintly.  
   
"Sair?"  
   
Yes, that was quite definitely a growl, and John felt he may just swoon where he stood, as all of the blood in his body had seemingly converged on a spot just below his belt buckle. Another hot blast of air wafting over his flesh, and John shivered deliciously.

_"Sair!"_

Lestrade suddenly looked up, and the expression on his face could only be described as hunger - raw, naked, and absolutely feral. Lestrade's upper lip curled back as John watched, revealing a set of fine, strong, incredibly white teeth. John felt the warmth of Tam's hand just before it closed over his forearm, tugging his hand out of Lestrade's grip.

The older man's head snapped up sharply and he turned such fierce, angry eyes on the lad that John found himself stepping in front of Tam as if to protect him. Lestrade blinked rapidly, a multitude of tiny expressions fleeting over his features in a mere moment. He finally settled on a mixture of horrified chagrin and sorrow before turning away abruptly and hurriedly retreating into the Keep.

John staggered slightly and fought the urge to go after him. Still reeling, head all in a muddle, he leaned against Tam's solid presence for a moment. When he felt that he could speak again, he pushed away from the lad and tilted his head back to look him in the face. Tam looked back, a mixture of embarrassment and concern on his face.

Keeping his voice low so as not to startle the ladies, John hissed out a question. "Just what in the name of all that is holy was that little display about, Tam? You said he was a _good_ man, not some kind of, of - deviant!"

Tam's mouth dropped open. "He _is_ a guid man, John. Just a wee troubled at times. He'd nae have hurt ye, Ah swear tae ye."

"Only because you were here to stop him. Thank you, Tam. I have no idea how I would have extracted myself from such a - situation." John smiled a little shakily at the boy's bright blush. "Now, let's not keep the ladies waiting on us. Rather poor manners." He straightened his shoulders and turned back to the womenfolk, who had stayed at their posts by the door.

He went to the older woman first, bending at the waist slightly as she bobbed a small curtsy in return. "Captain John H. Watson, at your service." She eyed him with a clear, steely gaze. John smirked inwardly. Frail she may look, but she had nothing but the highlands in her blood. She would be a formidable enemy, and John knew that he must get on her good side immediately.

Luckily for him, she also seemed to have a sense of humour. "That's tae last wair likely to see ae Hisself fer a while. He's nae doon anything like that fer a lang time. Nae he's got to brood fer a while, get melancholy all proper-like." She nodded up at the Keep. "Has Hisself a cot up on tae roof, goes up there when he feels like punishing Hisself for all the wrongs he ever done."

"Surely his sins aren't that numerous. He can't be that much older than myself, perhaps twoscore and five?"

"Appearances can be deceptive, young master. Aye, and 'ow many men have ye slain, standing there in yer fine uniform, with yer onescore and fifteen?"

John's jaw clenched, but the anger did not surface, for though her words were harsh, her tone was something else altogether, gentle, sad and knowing. He released the steel wire of tension in his spine and nodded brusquely. "Point taken, Missus Hudson."

Her eyes flew wide and she put a delicate hand to her mouth. "Oh, that is _too_ bad o' me. Aye, sair. Morna Hudson, if'n ye please." She bobbed in another quick curtsy. "Ah do the kitchens - wair fairly informal round here. There's nearly always summat available, but ye'll have to fetch it yerself. Ah'm no one's housekeeper." She smiled briefly and nodded to her left. "That's young Molls job."

John turned his attention to the young lass, who had turned a rather alarming shade of red. She was clearly discomfited at being the centre of everyone's attention and John took an instant liking to her. She stammered uneasily as John took her hand and raised it to his lips. "Pleased to make your acquaintance, lass."

She squeaked out some acknowledgement of the greeting, turning yet another brilliant shade of red. Tam chuckled from behind John, and she threw him a dirty look before once again casting her eyes to the ground at John's feet. John smiled. Yes, that was definitely a sisterly glare. He suddenly found himself thinking of Harriet. His sister Harry, who had emigrated to Australia nearly a decade earlier. They had barely heard a peep out of her since.

He shook himself as he let go of Molly's hand. The past - well, it was past, wasn't it? John still wasn't entirely sure what he was doing here, but he knew that part of it was about severing those connections, creating a new life for himself that hopefully didn't involve blood or pain. He felt his shoulders slumping and struggled to pull himself back together.

He felt a slight, whispery hand close over his. "It's all right, lad. Ye ken that ye'll be safe here, aye? We'll look after ye."

John looked into Missus Hudson's careworn face. "You don't know me. I'm naught but a stranger in a strange land. I could destroy everything that you've built here. You just don't _know_."

"Oh, aye? Ah ken enuff, young master. Ah ken that ye need a good hot bath, and summat to fill that grumbling belly o' yers. Wot more do Ah need tae ken?" John shook his head wordlessly, completely overcome and on the verge of an absolute breakdown. "Come. Molls, if'n ye'd get the bath started." Molly nodded and dashed into the Keep. "Tam'll help ye, o' course."

John flushed clear down to his toes. "I can bathe myself. I'm not a _complete_ invalid."

"Ach, aye? And ye'll carry tae buckets of hot water how? Wot with one shoulder having bin torn tae bits and tae other supporting that leg 'o yourn? Nay. The lad'll help, and ye'll take his help with grace, young master."

John sighed deeply as he followed her into the structure. "Yes, marm." He turned aside to Tam briefly to mutter. "And just who _is_ lord and master of this place, anyhow?" Once again, the lad's breathy chuckle shivered down John's spine, but rather than shaking it off, he allowed it to linger, let it travel down his limbs, leaving his fingers and toes tingling.


End file.
